The Ultimate Trophy Wife
by getvelwaii
Summary: No more, no less than a competition. For what? The ultimate trophy wife.Hermione is working for Witch Weekly and Ron is the prize. They're friends. Nothing more, nothing less. At least for now.


A/N: I know that it is very likely that I will get some flames from people who say that the whole idea of this story is horrible because women aren't supposed to be perfect 50's housewives. Believe me, I am all for keeping the rights obtained by women, but this story was fun for me to write and should be viewed in a light-hearted manner. The question may also arise: why does HERMIONE agree to this? Well, there is a reason. It just hasn't been revealed yet. I must also apologize for any ignorance I have about the magazine industry or anything else written in this story. Oh, and "copy" is basically text; it is a yearbook term I picked up.

**The Ultimate Trophy Wife**

_By: Getvelwaii_

…

**Prologue: The Idea**

Hermione first got the message while sitting in her grey and drab office cubicle at 469 Preston Street— offices to the British branch of _Witch Weekly_. Cynthia, the older woman that worked adjacent to her office space, popped over the low wall that separated the two of them. "Hey! Why working on that? Didn't you get the memo?" she asked, a little bit confused.

"No, what did it say?" Hermione looked up briefly from the copy that she was skimming over.

"There is a staff meeting in the conference room at 10:00. Dunlove is heading it. That means business."

"10:00? That is in five minutes! Why didn't I get the message?" she searched her coworker's face frantically, her article momentarily forgotten.

Cynthia rolled her eyes, "Come on, you know he hates you and your ideas. You are too opinionated for him. I think he just resents the fact that your ideas are _good_ even though they go against whatever he thinks up."

"Well, he knows that I have to send this in by today. Hello! Deadline. I was going to take a good long time on this, that's why I finished the paperwork ages ago. I guess I have to rush to get this out. He knows I'm a perfectionist. Ugh...Give me three minutes."

"I think that's your note." Her coworker pointed up at the air toward the unflattering fluorescent lights.

At that moment, out of the air, an inter-office memo fluttered down on Hermione's desk, right over her article on the recent influx of unsafe household cleaning products. She opened up the note. It was labeled: Granger.

_To: Hermione Granger (Pertinent Issues Section) _

_From: Dunlove (Editor-In-Chief)_

_We are having a last minute meeting in the conference room at 10:00 to discuss ideas for upcoming issues. You must be there. Do not be late. You must also finish all assignments by any deadlines. _

"I swear that last line was directed towards you," Cynthia said.

"Yeah…okay," she brushed her off, "that sentence doesn't make any sense…"

"Er, Hermione, we have three minutes left."

"…I think there is a verb disagreement…"

"We have two and a half minutes," Cynthia tapped her watch impatiently.

"…better sounding…"

"One minute and fifty seconds."

"Okay. I am officially done. Woo hoo!" She packaged the article and sent it off through the inter-office communication system in twenty seconds flat.

Cynthia laughed, "Only you could accomplish things like that in that amount of time."

"Hey, I work best under pressure," Hermione shrugged as they walked briskly to their meeting. "Right on time," she said as she walked through the frosted glass doors and slid into her seat.

Four hours later

The scene was set. In _Witch Weekly's _official conference room fifteen employees sat slumped in their seats drinking insane amounts of coffee that had turned cold as the time ticked on.

"Dating diaries!"

"Too overdone."

"Comics!"

"We are not a freaking newspaper!"

"Erm…"

"People, people, we need an idea."

"I had an idea, but nobody seems to go for teenage prostitution."

"Too controversial for the young wife. We need a sufficient idea that grasps audiences by the throat and forces them to keep on reading issues and seeing what a great magazine we have."

"We've been sitting here for hours. You can't force ideas no matter how hard you try."

"She's right, you just have let things come naturally. This conference table is not natural."

"Dammit Phyllis, I don't care.We need filler. We need for meat for this magazine. We need for young wife friendly meat. The only people that read this stuff are witches in their fifties. What is going to happen in twenty or thirty years? They're going to be DEAD! We need to grasp an audience. I don't care how. I don't care why. We just do. Granger! What do you think? You've been unnaturally quiet lately." He turned around and pointed to the twenty-three year old witch.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, arms folded over her chest with a thoughtful expression on her face; seemingly calm against the rising tempers of her boss and coworkers. "Well…I was thinking…I have this thought…an epiphany of sorts. I was thinking that we could have a something like the new Muggle craze in 'reality' television shows."

"Keep talking."

"See, all over the television channels are reality shows. They have contests in which the main prize is a man, a new look, five second fame, or a title. Of course the contestants have to go through obstacles and challenges to get what they want. I was thinking that in loop with our magazine we could take that idea and put it into text form. Our version would not have a cheesy host or a stupid catchphrase. No cheesy gimmick. No more, no less than a competition."

"For what?"

"The Ultimate Trophy Wife."


End file.
